


somebody's got to raise a little hell

by urcadelimabean



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Betrayal, Black Sails Femslash Week, F/F, Miranda Lives, Miranda is a witch AU, Rough Sex, Seduction, Set during season 4, Temporary Character Death, not-quite-enemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urcadelimabean/pseuds/urcadelimabean
Summary: Miranda persuades Eleanor to betray Rogers and become her ally, but neither of them knows how deep their feelings for each other will become.





	somebody's got to raise a little hell

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to everyone who helped me with this fic - xpityx for betaing, randomishnickname and sunneinsplendor for cheering me on, and everyone else who gave me encouragement along the way!
> 
> This is the first time I’ve ever written anything fantasy/supernatural, so please don’t apply too much logic to the world I’ve created! :p I just thought Miranda and Eleanor would be hot together and tried to make up a plot that could help that happen. Also, Eleanor needs someone to save her from herself and Miranda needs a girlfriend.

Eleanor thought she was dreaming at first.

She had fallen into a deep sleep beside Rogers under the weight of the warm humid night. Her heart ached. In moments of weakness like this she was struck by hatred so strong she felt physically sick with it: hatred for a man she had convinced herself she loved, hatred for herself for making the choices that had lead her here. She’d betrayed everyone she knew for Nassau, and in some twist of poetic irony, that list now included herself. She had betrayed herself. And what good had it done Nassau? She didn’t believe the woman she’d been would recognize her anymore.

She was too tired to get up and drown her thoughts with a drink, so she let sleep claim her.

At first, it was like most dreams–indistinct and a little muddled. She was walking through a house, and through the dream haze she thought distantly that she recognized this place. She had been here as a girl. This was the governor’s house in Charlestown. And then she was at a door, and the door was opening.

Flint sat at the table before her. Beside him, Miranda, her dark hair curling over her pale breast. They both sat still and tensed. At the head of the table was a man she did not know–Lord Peter Ashe, she supposed, invented by her imagination, for she had never met the man. Why she needed to reminisce about this place, she had no clue. Charlestown had burned months ago. Miranda had been killed–she had been told by gunshot. And Flint had begun a war.

They were speaking about the pardons, and a Lord Hamilton. Eleanor could not make much sense of it. It was a blur, as dreams often are. Complete nonsense, fabricated by her overactive tired brain. The Thomas Hamilton part was no doubt inspired by rumors about why Flint had never visited the brothel or taken a lover. Eleanor wryly acknowledged that of course there were others besides her who hid such liaisons with the same sex, so it was not impossible to imagine that Flint was one of them…but that was all this was, imagining. An imagining of answers for things Eleanor had long wanted to know. About Flint’s past, about Miranda’s past. None of it was true.

At the beginning she had thought she disliked Miranda, perhaps simply for having secrets. The whole island had been under her power at the time, but Miranda had seemed untouchable at the heart of it, shrouded in mystery, beautiful and distant. When Miranda made it clear how she viewed the men with whom Eleanor did business, Eleanor had resented it furiously, all the more for the voice in the back of her head reminding her she had thought similar things of those men. They were stupid and crude, many of them. If not most. She did not want Miranda to think she was no better than any of the witless fucks on the beach. What she wanted was to make Miranda understand how hard she had worked, how dirty she had fought, just to be viewed as an equal to those men. And she wondered what Miranda would have done in her place.

She could say she didn’t regret anything she had done, but that would be a lie. She could say she wasn’t proud of what she had done, but it would be a lie as well. Why she wanted to work out these contradictions in front of Miranda was beyond her. She didn’t need Miranda’s favor. She hadn’t ever needed anything from Miranda.

The clock struck it’s chime, and with a rush of vertigo, Eleanor felt suddenly like she was there, in the room with the four of them: Flint and Miranda and Ashe with his guard. A breeze was coming in the open window, ruffling Miranda’s hair and the fabric of her dress.

Ashe seemed not too different from Rogers–a man convinced of his righteousness, used to getting his way, completely unaware of the privilege he had been awarded by his sex and status.

When Ashe’s betrayal came into the open Flint went silent, like the breath had been knocked out of him, but Miranda flared to life.

“I want to see this whole city, which you purchased with our misery, _burn_!” Miranda shouted, like a clap of thunder, and it was so loud that her words rang in Eleanor’s ears.

Miranda’s eyes kindled with fire, and Eleanor could practically feel the heat of her rage, feel it spreading to her own chest as if caught by an ember, and all Eleanor could think in that moment was that Miranda had never looked more beautiful.

Eleanor had thought–naively, stupidly–that Miranda was above those emotions like rage and vengeance. She had seen Miranda as some gentle Englishwoman living peacefully in the countryside. It was a flat image one takes at first glance, one likely intended by Miranda herself, a perception so obviously superficial that Eleanor was ashamed.

Miranda was like her. She had held this fire inside her for years, and kept the appearance of control and calm, and it had burned until she couldn’t contain it. The pain, the loneliness, the rage, the hurt. Eleanor knew about that too. They both knew about being judged twice as hard for being a woman, and being twice the monster for it when the ember finally caught fire.

With that realization Eleanor felt herself waking from a slumber she felt had lasted months since she’d been in England. And she burned, hot and then with cold fury, for being captured and brought to England, for mutilating herself into the role she now occupied simply for the need to survive.

But she would feel no shame over that. She would not punish herself for where life had taken her–because if she did, she would be doing the work of those who would like to see her punished.

She saw an echo of her old self in Miranda, and wanted to reach out to capture it, as much as to reach for the familiarity of her past self as to reach for the beautiful stranger before her. She wanted to reach for the secrets behind Miranda’s mouth and eyes, to know–

The gunshot rang out and Eleanor recoiled and watched with horror as Miranda crumpled to the floor. She heard Flint’s yell, but even as Miranda fell, she remained in the air where she had stood as an after-image. Or perhaps she was a ghost. It was all a dream, anyway. A ghost and a dream, twice as foolish for Eleanor to be thinking about in British-controlled Nassau from what would soon be her marriage bed.

But Miranda looked right at Eleanor. She looked hard at Eleanor, like she could really see her. Then Miranda walked towards her, and Eleanor noticed that there was no gunshot wound on that perfect brow. She could feel Miranda’s breath on her lips for a few moments before Miranda leaned forward kissed her.

It wasn’t like Max’s kisses, sweet and soft. It wasn’t like Charles’ kisses, hungry like he was trying to possess more of Eleanor than she was willing to give to anyone. Miranda’s kiss was searing and hard but without any desire to conquer, the kiss of an equal. Miranda tugged on Eleanor’s lips with her teeth and entered Eleanor’s mouth with her tongue like she was getting to know her, but also like she already knew some part of her–some of the darkness, and the loneliness, and the pain.

If ever Eleanor had imaged being kissed by Miranda she had not thought Miranda would kiss like this.

Miranda’s kiss was heavy and purposeful, and every part of Eleanor’s body felt alive, more alive than she’d felt for months. Miranda pulled their bodies flush together, and Eleanor’s hands moved down to her bodice, trying to touch her everywhere at once, as Miranda’s nails dragged down her neck. Miranda’s hands pulled at her clothes, and Eleanor’s mind was ablaze with the thought of everything they could do together, all the ways she could get to know Miranda’s lips, the curve of her waist, the softness of her dark hair–

Eleanor sat up in bed, chest heaving. She could still feel the impression of Miranda’s fingers on her throat, the softness of Miranda’s breast under her fingers, the burning heat of Miranda’s kiss on her lips like a promise. She curled onto her side as if wounded, sliding her hand down until her fingers met the wetness between her thighs.

That had been no dream.

 

 

Eleanor wanted to avoid thinking about it the next day, at least as much as she could. Memories of Miranda’s mouth on hers were hard to suppress. The warmth of Miranda’s body pressed against hers, and the feeling of her skin plagued her. Worse than that was the question about what the hell it meant, but Eleanor wasn’t ready to confront that yet.

Frustrated, tired and feeling lost after finishing her business for the day, she retired to her rooms where for a little while, at least, she could be alone.

She poured herself a drink and drained it.

Even when Eleanor felt like she had made progress--made Rogers’ men trust her even a little, begin to respect her for her toughness, understand that she was a valuable ally--she couldn’t help but remember how things had been before. Before, she had told men exactly what she thought of them, and to hell with their hurt feelings. She had forced them to respect her, even if it meant they hated her for it. She hadn’t needed to pretend she was harmless. Being tough and unapologetic about it was what had made her successful. Now, well...she didn't know. She didn’t know how to hold onto her power if she became Rogers’ wife. She didn’t like having to walk this fine line between the woman she used to be and the woman she was supposed to be.

Eleanor smoothed her dress in an attempt to subdue the sick feeling that rose in her throat. She knew she could go through with the marriage. She could do a lot of things if she had to. For fuck’s sake, she had been prepared to kill an old lover to cement her power here. But with that, as with this marriage, it didn’t mean she wouldn’t feel like she was killing some part of herself in the process.

When Charles had been imprisoned, it had been Max who had convinced her to delay the trial. In the end Eleanor had put him and other men who were due to be hanged on board a ship headed for England. Perhaps she had wanted to go through with the hanging here in some foolish effort to make Rogers’ men believe she was on their side. Now Charles’ fate was out of her hands. Eleanor supposed she had sent him to his death.

Unless he escaped. Eleanor tried to quell the fear clenching her heart. She tried to calm herself with the thought that although she may have it in her to kill a lover, she didn’t believe Charles had the same ability--no matter how fucked up their relationship had been in the end, Charles had seemed tragically incapable of falling out of love, like a man who would dash himself on the rocks until he broke, as she stood above him immovable as a cliff face.

But even if he posed no threat to her life, he certainly posed a threat to her dream of Nassau’s future. Eleanor breathed out a scornful sigh. Did she even know what she wanted for Nassau’s future anymore? Wasn’t it enough to be cross with everyone who knew--did she have to be cross with herself?

She supposed she owed it to Max that Charles’ potential murder weighed upon her in the place of an actualized one.

Thinking of Max and Charles brought her thoughts at last back to Miranda, and she shivered for a completely different reason. She supposed it was hypocritical of her to fight so hard to make Rogers and his men believe she was on their side when she was entertaining fantasies about this woman, who was most assuredly their collective enemy.

Yes, she had been avoiding this, and wanted desperately to continue avoiding it, but the unsettled feeling wouldn’t go away until she faced whatever this was. It was too preposterous to think Miranda had come to her somehow, and yet Eleanor could not shake the feeling of Miranda’s hard gaze upon her. She had felt it in her bones that Miranda had really seen her, somehow, across the boundary between the living and the dead.

 

 

When Rogers returned later, Eleanor excused herself with an explanation that she had a few more things to attend to downstairs. But she didn’t stay in the house. She grabbed a shawl and let herself out onto the street.

The night was dark with no moon. Eleanor hurried through the shadowed streets to the tavern and slipped  inside.

Once she had closed the door to her old office, she breathed out a sigh. Though she hardly spent any time here, the room still belonged to her: it felt like coming home to be back here again after so long.

She lit a lantern. The room was just how she’d left it--papers were strewn across the desk, and the old chair beside it. She wanted to collapse in that chair and make herself another drink, but before she could do any of these things, she felt the hairs stand on end at the back of her neck and an unsettled feeling clench her heart.

She was certain she had closed the door behind her.

When she turned, her breath caught in her throat. Miranda stood there, lifelike, in the same dress from Eleanor’s vision. But now Eleanor was certain she wasn’t dreaming, and her blood ran cold.

Miranda gave her a reassuring smile. “My dear, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What the _hell_ are you?” Eleanor whispered. When Miranda took a step forward, she couldn’t help but take a quick step back, and found herself pressed against the desk.

“Don’t worry,” Miranda began. “You shouldn’t be afraid. I cannot harm you.”

“I guess I’m supposed to take your word for it. Why the fuck are you here?” Eleanor’s eyes flickered down to Miranda’s skirts, trailing on the floor. She didn’t cast a shadow in the flickering lantern light.

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “I’d like to get my body back, and I’d like you to help me do it.”

“Why the hell would I help you?”

Miranda took another step closer and reached out her hand. Eleanor flinched slightly before Miranda’s fingers met her cheek. The touch was warm, and Eleanor felt the fluttering in her stomach ease a little.

“What are you?” she asked again. How could Miranda touch her? She squared her jaw as Miranda’s fingers continued to caress it.

“I’m a witch, my dear.” Miranda held Eleanor’s chin in between her fingers. “It is difficult for a spirit to cross between worlds, but easier to touch another soul than to touch any of the other things in this room.” As she spoke, the feeling of her fingers disappeared, and they passed through Eleanor’s chin like a wisp of cloud.

Eleanor jerked away from Miranda and strode behind the desk, holding her face in her hands. She had wanted to know Miranda's mystery, but this was too much to comprehend. “No, no, I must have gone mad. This can’t be happening. I must have gone mad, I must have--”

“Eleanor,” Miranda murmured softly. “Trust what you feel. You have not gone mad. What you saw in your vision was the truth--Ashe’s betrayal of James, my death, all of it.” She slowly approached Eleanor, raising her hands in a gesture of peace. “But I did not come here merely to ask for your help. I came because I believe we can help each other.”

Eleanor wiped a few stray tears from her eyes. “Help me? You must be joking.”

Miranda was standing near to her again, looking at her with that gaze that was too piercing for Eleanor’s liking. “Not too long ago, I was speaking with James.” Miranda smiled fondly in remembrance. “I was wondering aloud if the people we were then would recognize us now. I know some of how you’re feeling, Eleanor. I know what it’s like to lose a part of yourself.”

“You don’t know anything about me!” Eleanor snapped.

“I know you don’t like having to pretend to be whatever it is you’re pretending to be now,” Miranda shot back. “Look at me and tell me you’re happy standing in Rogers’ shadow. Look at me and tell me you’re happy giving up control of the future of this place that you have fought so long and so hard to protect!”

Eleanor closed her eyes and breathed out a sharp sigh. The reminder of all the years of her life she had poured into shaping Nassau’s future left her feeling empty, but she flushed with warmth at Miranda's recognition of her efforts to shape this place. “What the fuck do you want from me? I don’t know what else to do.” She shook her head. She didn’t know if she could bear betraying another person close to her, even if it was someone like Rogers--to have her word mean less than nothing, to be someone with loyalty to nothing, to have all her dreams fall away to _nothing_. “You’re asking me to betray him.”

Miranda took a step forward, concern creasing her brow. “I’m asking you to loyal to _yourself_.”

Eleanor fought to stop her lips from trembling and pursed them in a hard line. “What do you know about loyalty? Didn’t you betray Flint, when you wrote that letter? And by any of the accounts I have heard you were anything but loyal to your husband--”

“No, I would never betray James,” Miranda whispered. Eleanor felt a pang of guilt at the expression on Miranda’s face. “For years I have protected him with my powers from all kinds of danger. As my powers grew, I made him almost impervious to harm. As for my husband…” A bittersweet smile curved up Miranda’s lips. She raised her eyebrows, and when she spoke her voice was sharp. “Don’t presume to know anything about my relationship with him. You clearly don't understand it.”

Eleanor clenched her jaw. “I understand that you’re trying to get me under your power, to _seduce_ me with your words.” She took a deep breath, but could not prevent her hands from shaking. “Are you putting a spell on me?”

Miranda pursed her lips, pushing dimples into her cheeks, and a little laugh escaped her mouth. “My dear, I am flattered, but I cannot put a spell on you, not as I am now.” She shook her head. “If I could do any real sort of magic, other than the magic of appearing to you, I wouldn’t need your help at all, and I wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

Eleanor could concede there was logic in that, and it was a relief to know Miranda couldn’t simply overpower her and make her do whatever she wished. And yet at the same time, some darker part of her wished Miranda _would_ make her, absolving her of any responsibility in what came next, making her something other than the woman who would betray those closest to her again and again.

“So that’s why you’re begging me for help,” she spat out.

“I’m _offering_ a way out of a future you do not want to _live_ ,” Miranda replied, lowering her voice as she looked hard at Eleanor. “I _felt_ your anger, Eleanor--”

“You don’t know what you felt,” Eleanor lashed out, trying vainly to deny what Miranda was saying, when it felt like she was only getting closer and closer to Eleanor’s heart.

“I do know, I know because I feel the same way,” Miranda pressed on. “I know you felt it too.”

“You don’t-”

“Tell me, do you love him?”

“What business is it--”

“Do you _love_ him?” Miranda hissed.

Eleanor let out an angry laugh. She lifted her chin as Miranda’s ghostly fingers brushed over it again.

Miranda studied her slowly, and Eleanor hated herself for the way her whole body came alive as Miranda’s eyes fell to her lips. Miranda leaned closer until the faint touch of her breath fell on Eleanor’s mouth. “You didn’t kiss me like someone who loves him. You kissed me like someone who longs for a way out.”

Eleanor growled and grabbed Miranda’s face, delivering a kiss to her mouth as an act of violence. “You can’t make me betray him,” she whispered, looking it Miranda’s reddened lips and darkened eyes. “You can’t make me do anything.”

“No,” Miranda agreed, “I can’t make you.” She pushed Eleanor back suddenly against the wall, held her there, with her lips against Eleanor’s ear. “But I can show you why you should choose this future as my ally over the one who might have with him.”

“What the fuck can you give me?” Eleanor whispered. Her hands were in Miranda’s hair, torn between pulling Miranda close, so close, and shoving her away.

“The chance to recognize yourself again.”

Miranda tore at Eleanor's stays and pulled on the fabric of her dress, bringing it down from her shoulders. Eleanor shivered from the feeling of Miranda's fingers and noticed that she could finally _breathe_ again. None of the dresses she wore these days were things she would wear by choice--they were stifling and uncomfortable, nothing like her old skirts and blouses. Miranda stripped her of the garment like she was stripping her of her past. The skirts fell on the floor and Miranda's hands were at Eleanor's underclothes, pulling and ripping the thin fabric in her haste, teasing Eleanor's breasts until she moaned impatiently.

Eleanor pulled at Miranda's clothes too, raking her fingers across Miranda's pale bosom and covering the red marks with her tongue. Miranda gripped the back of Eleanor's head and arched up against her mouth, then tugged her back by hair to deliver another rough kiss. Eleanor opened her mouth hungrily and moaned in surprise as Miranda’s tongue slipped inside. Miranda’s kiss--everything about Miranda--made her want in a way she couldn’t remember wanting in a long time.

Eleanor nursed her lower lip when Miranda pulled away. “What sort of noblewoman behaves this way?” she asked wryly. “Did your husband approve of you falling into bed with whomever you fucking chose?”

Miranda smiled slightly as her eyes darted back to her lips. “I never cared if others approved. There was a time when you didn't either.”

Eleanor huffed out an angry breath, and, unable to come up with a rebuttal, kissed Miranda again fiercely. Miranda pushed her back against the wall and shed the last of her clothes.

Mussed hair falling over her creamy skin, the swell of her hips, and the delicate hairs between her legs--Eleanor took it all in in an instant before Miranda's body was flush against hers. She felt the heat of Miranda’s body spreading through her, centered low in her belly. Miranda felt real, but there was something in the air that made Eleanor's hair stand on end and remind her that the woman before her was neither alive nor physically here in the same way she was.

Miranda’s fingers slipped down between her legs and Eleanor arched into the touch, losing her grasp on these thoughts, losing her grasp on everything but Miranda. Miranda circled her clit until Eleanor writhed, trembling as the sensation crashed over her in wave upon wave. Then Miranda pressed her fingers down to where Eleanor was wet and waiting for her. Eleanor sank to the floor with Miranda’s fingers still inside her, her moans swallowed up in Miranda’s kisses. She let Miranda bring her completely undone until she was crying out and chasing the movement of Miranda’s hand with her hips.

As she lay there delirious with pleasure, Miranda bent down to kiss her again. Eleanor’s instincts were telling her to fight, so she held Miranda by her hair and pulled her backwards, then rolled on top of her. She sucked at the skin under Miranda’s jaw and until she moaned, then found her breast with her tongue. Miranda’s body melted under her touches. It had been so long since Eleanor had been with a woman. Rogers was a mediocre lover at best, and as Miranda rolled on top of her again, fighting for the upper hand, and slipped her expert fingers back down across her clit and into her aching cunt, Eleanor realized how long she had been without real pleasure.

Miranda licked between her folds and dug her fingers into Eleanor’s thigh as she kissed her there. It was almost too much for Eleanor to comprehend--Miranda’s mouth touching her. Eleanor gasped as Miranda’s tongue sent heat coursing through her entire body. Eleanor supposed Miranda was trying to conquer her in some way, but what she really promised was being treated as an equal, as an ally, and Eleanor already felt herself giving in to it. She wanted to surrender to this. She wanted Miranda, and she was afraid of how much she wanted. She swept Miranda underneath her and rocked against her mouth as Miranda held her close by her thighs. At last Eleanor cried out and went still.

But Miranda wasn’t done with her, determined to bring out every last bit of pleasure from her body. They were kissing again, hands at each other’s throats. Miranda bit Eleanor’s lip and pulled her closer by the ass, and Eleanor remembered briefly how she had longed to do these things with Miranda since the first moment she had seen her. She hadn’t dreamed that Miranda had the same hunger for it.

In between wrestling and kissing, Eleanor finally ended up on top. She kissed down Miranda’s neck to her breasts once more, this time finding the delicious heat of Miranda’s cunt with her fingers. She moved her fingers in and out as she ground her hips against Miranda's thigh, feeling Miranda come apart under her caresses. She kissed Miranda’s lips, and didn’t let up until Miranda was moaning and whimpering into her mouth. Eleanor liked this--liked giving as good as she got, and showing Miranda two could play at this game, seeing how beautiful Miranda looked gazing up at her, eyes helplessly darkened with desire.

Miranda came once more riding Eleanor’s thigh with Eleanor’s nails leaving red marks across her ribs. She pulled Eleanor on top of her and yanked her down hard by her tangled hair. Eleanor down ground against Miranda’s stomach, and Miranda slipped her fingers between their bodies again, into Eleanor’s heat, as if she would make Eleanor come again and again until she finally gave in.

Eleanor wrapped her hand around Miranda’s throat and squeezed, held her down as she rode Miranda’s fingers. “You can’t make me join you,” she gasped out, trying to assert any last bit of dominance over Miranda before she was overcome, watching Miranda open her mouth and heave a breath with difficulty.

“No,” Miranda gasped, and arched her head back. Eleanor’s fingers tightened around her neck. Miranda held Eleanor’s gaze, the rest of the thought remaining unsaid: _I can’t make you do anything, but you’ll do what I want nonetheless._

When Eleanor came for the last time, her grip on Miranda went slack. Her body surrendered to the wave of pleasure, and Miranda heaved a deep breath.

Slowly, like sand being washed away in the tide, Miranda began to disappear from underneath her until Eleanor was kneeling on the floor, breathing hard, still aching with need, her lips burning from Miranda’s kisses.

Miranda’s voice whispered in her ear like a breeze, “ _You know where to find me_.”

Eleanor braced herself on the floor, hair hanging over her face, and breathed raggedly in the silence.

 

 

Down the hall from her office was her old bedroom, where she still kept some of her clothes. Eleanor pulled on a skirt and blouse, then hastily stuffed some more of her things into a pack. She didn’t know if she felt guilty yet about what she was about to do--or if it was worse that she didn’t think she’d feel any guilt at all. There was a certain sick satisfaction in becoming the woman without any loyalty they all believed she was. Well, then shame on them for trusting her. Shame on Rogers for not seeing it sooner.

It hit her again, how much she hated him. Eleanor steadied herself against the wall and tried to breath deeply. The fact that she made herself lie in his bed, help him take control of a place he would _never_ fully understand, let him believe he was better at this than she was--

She continued packing as quickly as she could, shoving the rest of her belongings into the pack. When she was done went back to survey the room and that chair, sitting empty. What sort of horrible irony was it that it had been so difficult to betray a man she hated, but not so long ago, with a woman she loved, she had barely hesitated. Ambition over love. Eleanor supposed it made her heartless, and a lot of things that were much worse than that. But she didn’t have time to dwell on it right now.

Miranda was right--she should be loyal to herself. She supposed she might regret many things in life, but if she didn’t choose this now, she’d live to regret that too.

Did she trust Miranda? She didn’t think she should. But strangely, she trusted what Miranda wanted for Nassau’s future, and that was all that mattered now anyway. Miranda cared about the future of this place just as much as she did, was willing to do whatever it took. Eleanor had felt her rage, but she trusted it in a way she had never trusted Charles’ rage, or Flint’s.

She didn’t know yet what it would be like to be Miranda’s ally, but she supposed she would learn in good time. The fist step was returning Miranda to this world. Then she could work with whatever happened next.

She rode out of Nassau, wrapping a scarf around her face as a precaution, though it proved to be unnecessary since she met no one on the road.

Miranda’s cottage was still, the windows dark. Eleanor tied up her mare, drew a bucket of water from the well brought it back to her.

Slowly, Eleanor opened the door. It swung open on its hinges with a creak. The place looked like it had been trashed--broken plates and cups littered the floor. Most of the furniture was gone. The books and paintings had been cleared out, leaving no trace of Miranda.

Eleanor sat down on Miranda’s bed, put her pack on the floor, lay down and fell into a deep sleep.

  
  
  
  
When she woke, there was dim light coming into the room. She rose and washed with some water from the well, and when she went into the kitchen, she was unsurprised to see Miranda sitting there at the table. She looked for all the world like a living woman, if it wasn’t for the way the light seemed to go through her when Eleanor looked at her out of the corner of her eye.

“Good morning,” Miranda murmured with a smile.

Eleanor stared at her with some resentment at having to deal with this so early in the morning and wordlessly began heating some water for tea. She was about to place a cup in front of Miranda and then stopped herself, but caught Miranda’s small smile. “What happened to this place?” she asked, motioning around at the room.

“I’m guessing someone used it as a safehouse. Pirates, by the look of things.”

Eleanor huffed a laugh. “Aren’t you upset about it?”

Miranda shrugged. “Before I left, I removed most of my belongings and stored them in the cellar, in a place only I can find. I'll show you how to open it. There's some salted meat and other dried foods down there that should last you a while.”

Eleanor poured tea for herself. There were a million questions on her mind. How did Miranda come to have her powers? Did Flint or anyone else know about them? And was Miranda still thinking about last night as much as Eleanor was? A thrill ran down Eleanor's spine but left a feeling of emptiness. It was just fucking, there was nothing more to it. She should know that.

She sipped her tea, trying to chase images of last night from her mind. “Why me?”

“Beg your pardon?”

Eleanor shook her head. “Why not go to Flint, or anyone else you know, for help? Why did you choose me?”

Miranda folded her hands in her lap. “At first, I did go to James.” She sighed, looking out the window and into the distance. “I appeared to him as I first appeared to you. I tried many times to get him to hear me, but the dreams only horrified him. He could not conceive of me being...not exactly alive, yet not dead. I tried so hard to reach him, but no matter how hard I tried, he simply couldn’t believe there was a way to get me back.”

“It would seem to good to be true,” Eleanor said quietly, and Miranda turned back to look at her.

“Yes, I believe it would. Hope makes us vulnerable to being hurt again, and James has been hurt too many times by losing those he loves.” Miranda shook herself from her memories. “But in the end, I realized James couldn’t offer me the help I needed. His strengths lie in the strategies of war and intellectual pursuits, not in magic.”

Eleanor choked on her tea and quickly put the cup down. “I’m sorry....and you think I have strengths there?”

Miranda tipped her head as she looked at Eleanor. “Interesting. You never sensed it before?”

Eleanor closed her eyes for a brief moment. This was already too weird--she was having a conversation with an undead apparition over tea, and now she was being told she had magical powers. “You must be mistaken,” Eleanor began. “I’m not a witch like you.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “Not yet, perhaps. But you have the ability.”

Eleanor stood and paced to the window, then turned back, breathing out a sharp sigh. “You brought me here so I could help you, and now I'm finding out you think I can help you with magic…do you have any idea how preposterous that is?”

Miranda got to her feet. “It's not preposterous. You doubt it now, but I've felt your power. Did you ever lay a curse on Captain Vane?”

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. “What? No!”

“I felt it the day he took the fort from Hornigold. What did you say to him?”

Eleanor remembered that conversation--she remembered being furious, and wanting to take the power he had stolen from her back. _Don't tell me what you think I think. You sound ridiculous._

 _“_ What did you say to him, Eleanor?”

Eleanor sat down slowly at the table. “I told him that one day I'd push him and his men right into the fucking sea.” Eleanor pictured how she had ordered Charles and the other prisoners transported aboard a ship headed for England, not so long ago. She shivered. When she looked up at Miranda she saw that she was smiling.

“So you _did_ lay a curse on him. That day in the fort, your words determined a piece of his future. It's one of the simplest but most powerful forms of magic. I’m not surprised you could do it without intending to.”

Eleanor opened her mouth to speak but found no words.

“You still don't quite believe me, do you.”

Eleanor huffed a laugh. “I'm still grappling with the idea that _you're_ a witch, thank you very much.”

Miranda got up and passed through the table to sit beside Eleanor, who started in surprise. “Jesus Christ, can you warn me before doing that?”

Miranda suppressed a smile. “Sorry.” She laid one hand on Eleanor's. “The spell required an incredible amount of power--I imagine you were furious with Vane at the time.” Miranda pulled back, and Eleanor missed the faint warmth of her hand instantly. “A curse _forces_ events in the future to rearrange themselves so that a new timeline can come into being. But there is another type of magic that you use for creating a storm, or mending a wound, that simply urges forces to do what they want to do a little faster, with the added help of your power.”

Eleanor remembered how Miranda looked in her dream, full of rage, radiating power. “In Charlestown, when you said you wanted to see the whole city burn...that was a curse?”

Miranda's eyes grew distant. “Yes, a very powerful one.”

“I'm nowhere near as powerful as you. I don't think I have any power at all, despite what you think. And what exactly do you expect me to do?”

Miranda smiled grimly. “I want you to call my spirit, and help it find the world of the living again.”

Eleanor shook her head. It seemed beyond impossible. “I don’t understand. But you're speaking to me right now.”

“Yes,” Miranda replied, taking her hand again, “but I am speaking to you and touching you from the other side of the veil. I am far away. If I could do magic I could throw myself back to your side, but I cannot. Think of the distance between the living and dead as even greater a distance than the length of all the oceans many times over.”

Eleanor shivered. “I don't know if I can summon a spirit over such a distance. I can't even summon a storm cloud.”

Miranda smiled warmly. “Then that is how we will begin.”

 

 

They spent the entire day in the garden, Miranda explaining to Eleanor how to look for and grasp the power he had inside her. Having never been conscious of it, it felt to Eleanor a but like fumbling around in the dark in a cluttered room for an object she had never seen.

“Stop trying to force it,” Miranda had told her. “You're thinking of curses again.”

Eleanor was thinking of some curse words, too. It was sweltering, sitting on the hot earth looking up at the sky. She _longed_ for the rain.

And the for one terrifying, breathtaking moment she could _feel_ the clouds miles above her--each droplet of water suspended in the air, growing heavier.  

And then she was back in her body again, panting, covered in sweat.

“I felt it,” she breathed out, in a mixture of triumph and frustration, as the feeling slipped away again.

 

 

“What if I don't have the strength for this?” Eleanor asked, as she paced Miranda's room later that day. She was exhausted just from barely touching a power she had only just learned of. If doing that took so much out of her, how could she ever perform a real spell?

“You have the strength,” Miranda insisted. Her hands solidified on Eleanor's shoulders, holding her firm. “You certainly have the willpower.”

“I don't know.”

Miranda leaned closer. “Your instinct is to overthink it. This isn't politics, or strategizing about trade. It's something you _feel_.”

“How do I stop overthinking?”

Miranda held Eleanor's shoulders tighter. “Put it out of your mind for now.” She pressed her mouth to Eleanor’s.

It was easy to stop thinking with Miranda's lips on hers again, but Eleanor wondered if Miranda had faith that she was capable of this, or if some part of her was scared that if Eleanor failed, she would never return to the living world.

She wondered if ghosts could fade, and if Miranda would fade the more time went on.

“Stop thinking,” Miranda whispered, and began undressing her.

But Eleanor was still thinking about how if she failed, and Miranda was lost forever, the last person she would have spoken with, lain with, and kissed would be Eleanor--it made her feel horribly unworthy, as she kissed down between Miranda's breasts and tasted her soft skin, then teased at her nipple with her tongue. It was like touching the skin of a goddess. Miranda deserved to be alive, to be full of life, never to fade. She didn’t deserve this mockery of life. Eleanor barely knew her, but she knew Miranda deserved joy and laughter and freedom from all of this.

This time, Eleanor kissed down to Miranda's thighs, buried her face between them and tasted her. She could get drunk on the taste of Miranda, and on her desperate moans and cries as she got closer to the edge. Miranda tossed her head, dark hair spread out beside her on the pillows, and Eleanor studied her, burning the image into her memory, afraid it would slip away.

Eleanor found Miranda liked it when she sucked on the bite mark she had left on her neck. She filed away the feeling of Miranda arching her back and trembling in her arms, and wished the taste of Miranda would stay on her lips forever.

By the time they we're done, they were both bruised, covered in sweat and the wetness of each other's pleasure. Again Miranda faded away leaving Eleanor devastated and alone.

 

 

Miranda came back each day and disappeared each night. They fucked, and worked, and ate and slept--or at least Eleanor ate and slept. She did not know what it was like, that place Miranda was in when she disappeared. Ghosts didn’t need to sleep, she supposed.

She thought about Flint and his love for Lord Thomas Hamilton. It wasn’t so much the sex of his lover that surprised her, it was the idea of Flint-before-he-was-Flint, falling in love, being happy and almost carefree. It made her realize that the man she had known had been hardened not just by life in Nassau but by grief.

And Miranda had been right--Eleanor didn’t understand what Miranda’s relationship was with either Flint or Thomas. She wanted desperately to know. Would Miranda be Flint’s lover again when--if--they were reunited? Is that what Miranda would wish for herself and Thomas as well? Who held Miranda’s heart? And why did Eleanor think it was any of her business? It wasn’t as if she was owed the answers to these questions. She tried to bury these newly budding feelings as quickly as they came up and poured all her energy into her work--as endlessly frustrating as it was.

 

 

At first Eleanor could only coax a few drops of rain from the sky, but after a few weeks she could call an entire storm cloud. The first time it rained, she couldn't stop laughing and just stood there until she was soaked. Miranda had smiled at her through the downpour.

Eleanor had cleared the last of the broken china out of Miranda’s house. She tended to the garden when she needed to take her mind off of the difficulty of learning to use her powers.

It surprised Eleanor that she had barely given thought to Rogers or his occupation of Nassau. Did he think she had been captured? Killed? She didn't know or care, and felt incredible freedom for not caring.

News reached them that Nassau had fallen to pirates allied with Maroons and that Rogers had retreated to Nassau fort. Eleanor guessed Rogers would have to take desperate measures if he wanted to retake Nassau town, but she did not yet know what those measures would be.

Miranda began to ask her to collect certain objects--an old dress of Miranda's, cobalt blue, made from the finest silk. A painting of Lord Thomas Hamilton. A trowel, shears, and other tools Eleanor still had trouble imagining in Miranda’s delicate hands--but which she had clearly used, living here for years on her own.

Then there were the books. Philosophy, mostly, a favorite subject of Miranda's. At one point, Miranda requested that Eleanor take out Marcus Aurelius’s _Meditations_. She had looked fondly at the book with an undercurrent of such sorrow that Eleanor had hesitated to ask about the book’s history.

At last Miranda seemed to think better of it, and asked Eleanor to put the book aside, and not include it with the other objects. Eleanor didn't ask what it all was for--she knew Miranda would tell her eventually.

 

 

“Did you have a teacher?” Eleanor asked Miranda one afternoon. It was still difficult for her to summon a large storm, but Miranda wanted her to practice calling a living animal--coaxing it close like you would a cat, but using the language of magic instead of speech. So far Eleanor had only persuaded one mouse to come out of the undergrowth into the open before scurrying back into the shadows.

“In England? Not really,” Miranda murmured. “I didn’t always keep to police circles, and met quite a lot of unsavory company. But I always found unsavory company to be more interesting,” she added with a twinkle in her eye. “There were a few women there who helped me learn about my powers and begin to explore them. But when I came here, I was still untrained. I had all these emotions that I didn’t know what to do with, so I poured them into my work.”

Eleanor didn’t need to be told what these emotions were--she could sense they were rage, grief, loneliness. She didn’t know what it was like to lose a husband. In fact, she knew very little of Lord Thomas Hamilton at all, other than how when Miranda spoke of him her entire being lit up and a fierce love came into her eyes.

Eleanor wondered again if Miranda loved him as a lover or merely as a friend, then tried to shake these thoughts from her mind.

Miranda continued, “I met another woman like me, named Ruth. We never met each other face to face, but she taught me almost everything I know. How to heal wounds, how to place protections against harm. How to lay curses.”

“You never saw her face? How can that be?”

“We spoke with our minds,” Miranda said simply. “As you are learning to speak with your mind now. She was a slave being kept at one of the plantations. I could not visit her.”

“Did she escape? Did you help her?”

Miranda shook her head. “I asked her if she wanted any aid in escaping, or a safe place to stay afterwards, but she told me that if any slaves escape the rest are punished. They divide families between plantations for this reason. So instead of helping her escape, I helped her with everything I could--healing wounds, assisting with childbirth, lending my powers to her whenever she needed. And as I helped her, I learned to control my abilities.” Miranda sighed, and fell silent for a moment. “I would have gone to ask for her help, if I didn’t know how to find her without magic, which is currently useless to me. And until I regain my powers, I am useless to her and to this island.”

Eleanor didn’t know what to say--Miranda had faced so much loss and so much loneliness, and the only friend she had found in this place had lived a life of tragedy.

Miranda added, “When she grew to trust me, she told me about her Queen and how she would eventually return to take control of the island. She gave me no name, but I figured I would learn in good time.”

Eleanor thought back to the news that had reached them from Nassau. “I wonder…” she began. “Pirates and freed slaves have taken Nassau town. I wonder if the Queen is among them.”

 

 

It was a few days later when Eleanor asked what Miranda about Flint.

“To set protections on him, protections that would still hold from afar, you must have been incredibly powerful.” She was only beginning to understand how powerful Miranda really was.

Miranda smiled slightly. “Yes, it took almost everything I had, but love and anger are powerful too, and they aided me.” Miranda sighed. “Oh, James. I placed so many protections on him when I was alive, and when I died he grieved for me, but I was just standing there shouting in his ear to be careful, because I was no longer able to shield him from harm.” Miranda shook her head.

Eleanor studied her, wishing she could soothe her worries. “Flint has powerful allies now,” she said softly, “he is not without defense.”

“You’re right,” Miranda replied. She clenched her hands together, as if trying to stop their restless movement. “It’s just, I couldn’t bare it, losing him after…” She stopped abruptly, turning away.

Eleanor stepped closer in anguish. “He will come to no harm. I feel it,” she whispered. “If there was every a man who was unkillable, it’s him.”

Miranda was silent for a moment, and then began speaking. “What do you think, is it a blessing or a curse to be given not one soulmate, but two? To be open to twice the risk of pain, but twice the abundance of happiness?” She fell silent again. “And yet I always longed for a third soulmate as well, someone with whom I could share what Thomas and James shared.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear me speak of James and Thomas--”

Eleanor willed herself to speak. “Please,” she blurted out, “speak of them as much as you’d like. It might help to ease the pain a little, might it not?” She touched Miranda’s shoulder lightly, and could barely tell if she was touching her or the wind until Miranda shifted, and Eleanor felt her dress against her fingertips.

Miranda’s eyes were red, but her lips curved into a smile. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I suppose it’s worth trying.”

 

 

That night, before Miranda faded into the night, Eleanor told her, “Don’t go.” Miranda froze, looking at Eleanor in surprise. Eleanor blushed and looked away. “Wherever you go when you disappear, I don’t imagine it’s a very pleasant place. Would you rather stay?”

Miranda’s lips set in a grim line. “I should have told you this at the beginning.” She wouldn’t meet Eleanor’s eyes. “Like any other spirit that is not tied to this world, it will become harder and harder for me to return. I’m afraid the longer I stay here, the quicker this will happen. I have already felt it starting.”

Eleanor rose from the bed and quickly came to Miranda’s side. “But is it horrible to return there?”

Miranda closed her eyes, reaching for Eleanor’s hands. “ _Yes_.”

Eleanor looked down at their joined hands, and gently brushed the back of Miranda’s hand with her thumb. “Then just stay this one night, even if you don’t sleep. Lie next to me.”

Miranda did stay and lie pale and ghostly next to Eleanor in the moonlight.

 

 

Eleanor barely noticed it at first, but Miranda was starting to fade. She appeared for shorter periods of time, and it seemed to require more and more effort, until she could only come at dusk. Then it grew impossible for her to touch Eleanor, and she appeared as only a shade, more and more light passing through her as if she wasn’t there.

 

 

Eleanor’s lessons continued. Having nothing comparable to a human soul to practice on, she focused on learning to use her powers in every way Miranda could teach her. And every day she wondered how strong he would need to be to bring Miranda back.

Miranda had sensed that there was something coming--some nearing sense of death. She told Eleanor that Rogers had escaped Nassau, and Eleanor wondered what sort of force he could muster to retake it. She shivered, and felt even more urgency in the task that lay ahead.

 

 

It was evening, and Miranda was silhouetted where she stood in the garden, the light dancing around her like she was not from this world.

"Miranda?"

Miranda straightened and turned towards her.

"Are you alright?"

A smile spread across Miranda's face. "Yes, my dear, I'm fine."

Eleanor turned her head to the side. "You may be a powerful witch, capable of protecting the fearsome Captain Flint from afar, but you're not the best liar. What were you thinking about?"

Miranda gave a small laugh that became a long sigh. She was silent a moment as she looked out into the distance, over the line of trees towards England. "He wasn't there. Thomas. When I was shot, I was suddenly plunged into darkness unlike anything I've ever known. I wandered...that place...for a long time. I wander it every time I go back. I look for him.” Miranda shook her head and wiped her eye briskly. “And he isn’t there."

Eleanor moved closer and lifted a hand, then retracted it at the last moment, remembering that it would pass through Miranda’s shoulder.

Miranda looked down and kept her face turned away. “If I had found him, I think it wouldn’t have occurred to me to try to come back. Does that make any sort of sense?”

Eleanor cursed her inability to touch Miranda. “I think it does,” she said quietly. “To be reunited with someone you love...you wouldn’t want to leave him again.”

Miranda was still, but inhaled and let out the breath as if regaining her composure. “Thomas,” she whispered, “where are you?” After a moment she turned abruptly back to Eleanor, dried her cheeks and gave a small smile. “Enough of that. Shall we continue the lesson tomorrow?”

Eleanor wanted to say, _No, I want to end this all now, I want to end it and bring you back._

 

 

When Miranda was only a voice whispering in her ear, Eleanor decided she couldn’t bare it any longer.

_We have to try now._

_Are you sure? Do you feel ready?_

_If I’m not ready now I may never be ready. I don’t feel like I have enough control yet, but I don’t want to wait._

_It’s not wrong to let your emotions help you._

_Like rage._

_Yes. How did you feel when you saw Ashe’s guard shoot me?_

_Fucking furious._

Eleanor slept badly that night, tormented with dreams of a dark wasteland full of the murmuring dead.

  
  
  
The next day dawned sunny and hot. Eleanor gathered the thing she would need. She walked until she found a good plot of earth. The land was not too soft here, but not too hard for digging. Eleanor set down her pack.

Sometimes she thought she heard Miranda’s voice, but it was just the wind in the trees.

It was sweltering, standing in the sun, digging into the earth with a shovel. Eleanor wiped her brow and barely gave a care to her own discomfort as she continued. She supposed magic could help her with this task, but it would tire her out more than the physical work would, and she needed to save all of her power for later.

When the grave was deep enough, she placed the objects inside. Each object belonging to Miranda held memories that would help call her to the land of the living. Eleanor began shoveling dirt back into the grave, watching as the cobalt silk of Miranda’s dress gradually disappear into the earth.

Finally, Eleanor knelt on the ground over the packed dirt. It was hot and moist under her fingers. She reached into the earth with her hands, took a deep breath to steady herself, and reached deeper with her mind.

 

 

It was dark. Not just in that there was no light--it felt dark in other ways. Despair, sadness, forgetfulness. And it was bitterly cold, so cold Eleanor almost could not imagine the feeling of warmth. To make matters worse, she could not get her bearing because there was nothing to orient towards. She felt lost in the middle of an expanse so great she began wondering if it ever ended, of if the entire earth was made up of this place.

She thought about Miranda--her fierceness, her wisdom, her quick wit, her strength--and focused on these things like a flame that could light the darkness.

She began to search for Miranda, not knowing in what direction to go, but simply going onward.

She did not know how long she searched, only that as she got deeper into this place things began changing--she was not alone in the darkness. There were shades around her, faceless, that began grasping at her as she passed, murmuring like trees at night. Eleanor shuddered and moved on, and the shades only grew thicker about her. Some had faces, some had faded until they were nothing but shapes, reaching out with their ghostly hands.

She wondered if Charles was here, or if he lived. She knew that if he had died, he would find her here.

She pressed on, and began to reach for Miranda with all her senses. What if Miranda’s memory was fading, just as she had been fading? What if she no longer knew Eleanor? What if he no longer wanted to leave this place? Eleanor began to feel a thread guiding her forward, the pull of something that felt familiar, and moved towards it with all her willpower.

 _Miranda_ , Eleanor called. _Miranda_.

She was surrounded by shades, swirling about her in a storm. And then she could see Miranda through the darkness and called to her. _Come with me._ She cried out to her, but her voice was lost in the storm.

 

 

Eleanor opened her eyes. Tears were running down her face from terror at what she had just witnessed. She was back in her body, kneeling on the warm dark earth. She didn’t know why she had failed. Had she not done enough to call Miranda to her? Were the memories buried beneath her not enough? She fumbled in her bag and pulled out the red leatherbound volume, the one Miranda had told her to put aside. She brushed its cover. She could not leave Miranda in that place. “Please, bring her back to me.”

She placed the book on the earth in front of her, burying it quickly with dirt, and shuddered before reaching out to Miranda again.

 

 

This time she was furious. She brushed the shades out of her way, trying to swallow her horror, and called Miranda with her mind. The trudge through the darkness exhausted her, as if she was climbing a mountain, but she focused on her anger to give her strength.

It wasn’t right that Miranda’s life be cut short when she had been trying to seek pardons from a man she thought was her friend.

It wasn’t right that she had been shot in cold blood simply for raising her voice at a man who had betrayed her.

It wasn’t right that Miranda should fade in this lonely place, without Thomas, not when there was the possibility that he was still alive.

This time when Eleanor saw Miranda, she grabbed a hold of her and didn’t let go.

 

 

And as quick as a bolt of lightning, Eleanor was back in the glaring sun again, in utter stillness. She stared at the ground. She remembered taking hold of Miranda’s spirit and holding it tightly, trying more than anything to wrench it back from that dark place. She remembered pulling as hard as she could. Her body felt numb with exhaustion. With her dulled senses, she reached down into the grave. There was warmth, a beating of something--

Eleanor began to dig, scrabbling at the dirt, pushing it away, barely pausing to wipe the sweat and tears out of her eyes. And then she began to feel something moving beneath her, shifting the earth under her knees.

A pale hand struggled out of the dirt and Eleanor grasped it as she began to furiously push the dirt away. She wasn’t even sure if she was using magic or not, but she knew she was using every bit of willpower that remained as she focused on Miranda and tried to _pull_ her upwards.

At last Eleanor saw Miranda’s eyes, wild and dark, and as she emerged from the earth, Eleanor saw that she was naked as the day she was born, her hair hanging loose over her shoulders.

Miranda pulled herself out of the earth and sat there breathing hard.

“Miranda?” Eleanor said weakly. Miranda looked dazed, and she was trembling slightly as if cold. Eleanor took her hand--it was cold as death. “Miranda?”

The look in Miranda’s eye terrified Eleanor. She looked confused and lost as she got used to the daylight. She looked around at where they were as if not understanding what she saw. Eleanor held her shaking hands. She wondered if it was possible for her to have brought Miranda back with no memories, and clenched her hands tighter.

She noticed small marks beginning to appear on Miranda’s fingers--long thin scars from gardening or cooking, slowly growing brighter and more visible on her skin. Eleanor looked up into Miranda’s eyes, and saw something blossoming on her brow. It was a fresh scar, redder and more recent than the others, but healed over, in the place the bullet had struck her skin.

“I remember,” Miranda whispered suddenly. “I remember Charlestown, and the gunshot…” She reached up to touch her forehead, and then looked quickly into Eleanor’s eyes. “I remember kissing you.” Miranda started weeping, and Eleanor hastily let go of her hands to pull her into an embrace. But Miranda was laughing as she cried, stroking Eleanor’s hair in wonder as if she had never touched anything before in her life.

Eleanor wept with relief.

Thunder peeled overhead and Eleanor looked up. It was starting to pour. She knew without asking that Miranda has summoned this storm, but Miranda looked just as surprised as she did, and that made Eleanor laugh out loud. Miranda was so powerful that just the smallest longing for rain brought down torrents. The rain washed the dirt off of Miranda’s skin, running in rivulets between her breasts and down her stomach. Eleanor watched as Miranda closed her eyes in ecstasy.

“Miranda,” Eleanor whispered, “I’m sorry. I had to use the book, the one you told me not to use. I buried in the ground with the others. I didn’t know if I would be strong enough without it-”

“You saved me,” Miranda interrupted. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. Miranda smiled as bright as the sun coming out from the clouds and laughed. “It was Thomas and James who saved me too. My memories of them held by that book helped bring me back. Don’t apologize for saving my life _._ ”

Eleanor swallowed hard as Miranda took both of her hands. “I’m sorry, I know the book was important to you.”

“And it was important to James as a remembrance of Thomas,” Miranda said, squeezing Eleanor’s hands. “But Thomas is _alive_. I feel it.”

As Miranda got to her feet, flowers began to sprout from the wet earth, driven by the power overflowing from her. Eleanor watched in shock as the blossoms opened and turned their faces up to the sun. Miranda smiled and led her by the hand away from the grave in the direction of her house.

Flowers continued to follow them as they walked, crowding around Miranda’s ankles. Eleanor couldn’t help but stare at Miranda. She was almost glowing. Completely unashamed as always of her nudity, she was content to bask in the warmth of the sun as she walked beside Eleanor. Eleanor blushed as her eyes followed the curve of Miranda’s neck down her chest, to the gentle swell of her breasts. She looked like the goddess Demeter come to life from a painting.

When they reached the house, Miranda bent and picked a hibiscus blossom and tucked it in Eleanor’s hair. Almost shyly, as if for the first time, she leaned in and pressed her lips to Eleanor’s.

 

 

Even in this moment of happiness, as she felt Miranda’s satisfied exhalation on her lips, Eleanor found her thoughts straying back to the journey she had just taken--the place where shades had grabbed at her, where she had looked for Charles’ ghost. The people who loved her either ended up dead, or heartbroken, or both. The thought felt like icewater running down her spine, and she looked up into Miranda’s questioning gaze, thinking of all the ways she could be a curse on Miranda’s life.

“You saved my life,” Miranda murmured softly.

Take aback, Eleanor asked, “Can you read my mind?”

"You still don’t trust me." Miranda's brow wrinkled in dismay and Eleanor's heart plummeted in her chest.

The sentence was proof enough that Miranda couldn’t read her mind, because Eleanor did trust her now. It had happened some time ago, she realized, somehow, quietly, in quiet moments of slowly beginning to understand Miranda. Miranda made her feel certain, and safe, and like she could take on the world. She had come to trust her absolutely.

"You could feel now if I tried to read your mind,” Miranda went on. “If I attempted to do that, you would know. You’d sense my power attempting to overcome yours. But I would never, ever violate your trust like that.”

Eleanor bit her trembling lip and shook her head. “I do trust you. I know. It’s just...you shouldn’t feel the same way about me.”

Miranda’s brows furrowed in concern and she held Eleanor’s hands tight. “I’m not _afraid_ of you, Eleanor, or afraid of the things that knowing you could bring into my life. You and James,” she sighed, “both so convinced that your very touch causes the destruction of those you love. And it’s not true.” She brushed Eleanor’s cheek. "You're afraid." Eleanor looked away, tried to step away, but Miranda took her hands quickly. Eleanor could barely look at her, naked and fairly glowing with life, her face softened with concern--for Eleanor of all people. "Afraid of living, and loving freely.” Miranda lead Eleanor by the hand with determination into the house, and into her bedroom. “Come with me,” she said firmly. “Lay with me.”

“How can you trust someone who has betrayed every single person she ever loved?” Eleanor choked out in a whisper, trying to wrest her hand from Miranda’s to no avail.

“My dear,” Miranda said softly, “you held my life in your hands. I can’t help but trust you.”

Eleanor shook her head, but Miranda stilled her with a hand on her chin and pulled her in for another kiss. Eleanor could feel the energy radiating off Miranda’s skin. Her body was hot against Eleanor’s everywhere their skin met--their lips, their hands, their chests, as Miranda stripped Eleanor of her shirt.

Eleanor knelt on the floor before Miranda and looked up at her. She had never really believed it would be possible to see Miranda alive again, and what sweet temptation it was to imagine staying with her forever.

Eleanor’s heart beat hard in her chest. She leaned in and kissed Miranda’s stomach and sat down further so that her mouth was even with her cunt. She leaned in to smell the sweet smell of her, then kissed her mound. Miranda’s hands came up to rest in her hair as she began explore further downward towards her center.

When Eleanor made Miranda come, and made her knees weak with pleasure, she quickly lay down on the bed so Miranda could keel above her. Miranda came down to rest against Eleanor’s mouth again. Eleanor’s hands drifted up her back and felt it arch hard as Miranda threw her head back. Eleanor drank from her, and Miranda cried out Eleanor’s name until she succumbed once again.

Eleanor didn’t know if she had the strength to leave Miranda in this moment, but when Miranda lay beside her Eleanor managed to at least turn away. She wondered why Miranda would trust a person who had only ever showed loyalty to herself. She didn't know if betraying those close to her was part of who she was or if it was part of how she had survived. Didn't it matter? She'd always do what she had to do to survive. Saving Miranda’s life had not changed that.

She winced as Miranda’s lips pressed between her shoulder blades.

“Please, stay with me,” Miranda murmured. “Not like before, as just my partner. This time, let yourself be mine. You know I’ve been alone for so long.”

Eleanor buried her face against the bed. If it was just sex, that was one thing, but this…

Miranda’s fingers brushed Eleanor’s shoulder, and down her spine and over the curve of her ass, then pressed between Eleanor’s legs, rubbing where she was already wet with arousal. “Please,” Miranda whispered, and Eleanor bit down on her lip and moaned as Miranda’s fingers pushed inside her. Miranda pressed close behind her as she began to move her fingers.

“Miranda, I can't,” Eleanor gasped, even as her body betrayed her, pushing back onto Miranda's fingers. “We shouldn't-”

“Eleanor,” Miranda whispered, her mouth against Eleanor's cheek. She circled Eleanor's throat with her hand. “If there's one thing I've learned from being dead, it's that risks are worth taking while we are alive to take them. You could be the end of me just as I  could be the end of you. Any of us could be the end of another. But I don't want to live with fear, especially not fear of love.”

She turned Eleanor's head to the side to reach her mouth and lay a kiss upon it. Eleanor opened her mouth in silent gasp as Miranda's fingers touched the spot inside her that made her whole body tense. She felt the sensation building and building as Miranda moved harder and faster, curling her fingers until Eleanor moaned.

Miranda dropped her mouth to Eleanor's neck and held her as the waves of her pleasure hit her. She pressed kiss after kiss there as Eleanor tried to catch her breath.

Afterwards, Eleanor lay in Miranda’s arms. She brushed Miranda’s shoulder, feeling how solid she was, listening to her heart beat against her cheek, when not long before she had been a shade lost in the underworld eluding Eleanor’s grasp.

It was strange, Eleanor thought, she hadn’t realized she had begun falling for Miranda. She had begun to to care, to worry, to _need_ in a way she hadn't in a long time. She didn’t know what was next for them or for Nassau, but in this moment her thoughts were consumed only by the woman beside her.

It was strange to think what would have happened if it hadn't been for Miranda, if Eleanor had never left Rogers. Miranda had saved her from her own nightmare, just as she had saved Miranda.

“Have you made your choice?” Miranda asked softly.

Eleanor wasn't quite sure what she felt...disappointment for not being able to resist Miranda? Perhaps it was relief that she wasn't, at least in this moment, punishing herself for Max and for Charles and for what she had become again by betraying Rogers.

“I'll stay,” she said quietly, and was terrified to find that she meant it. She brushed her fingers over Miranda’s temple, over the scar there.

“Good.” Miranda’s eyes crinkled as she smiled, and she let out a deep sigh as she brushed Eleanor’s cheek.


End file.
